


War of the Roses

by rococowitch



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: And love triangles, Angst and pining up ahead, Bisexual Sylvain Jose Gautier, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Hanahaki Disease, Other, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sylvix Week (Fire Emblem), also eventual smut, dimileth, dimilix, sylvix - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22387552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rococowitch/pseuds/rococowitch
Summary: The Blue Lions reunite at Garreg Mach five years after the Imperial uprising. Sylvain returns a changed man, but the person he cares about most doesn't see it. Something is building between them, but will it bloom?
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	War of the Roses

**Author's Note:**

> My first Fire Emblem piece featuring my favorite pair: Sylvain and Felix. Get ready for pining, angst, eventual smut, and good old hanahaki. Enjoy!

_ Sylvain _

The roar of the battlefield quiets to an almost eerie silence. They’ve taken back monastery, driven the thieves and beasts out. Dismounting his horse, he heads away from the small crowd gathering at the center of the field, away from the bodies of former students he can’t remember the names of. 

Sylvain trudges through mud and dirt and blood; it cakes to his boots with every step, slowing him, but he’s used to this. Used to the scent of death and iron and the bitter taste of victory in his mouth. He walks until he finds the grassy knoll he once used to escape to, back when the war seemed a distant threat. He pushes the wriggling blade of his lance into the ground and begins to peel off layers of armor, groaning softly as air hits overheated skin. 

When did Garreg Mach get so  _ hot _ ?

He missed the frigid cold of Faerghus. How the biting wind made his nose pink and numb. The feeling of being wrapped in a heavy cloak before a roaring fire. A furrow forms in his brow as he tries to focus on the feeling of being  _ cold _ ; he thinks of waking up to snow falling and the sight of the mountain from his bedroom window.

Images of the past remain at the forefront of Sylvain’s mind as of late. With every battle he pushes through, he clings to the memories, desperate not to forget them. They’re the only thing that seemed to give him any solace, that helped him get any sleep. 

Mostly, he thinks about his childhood, spending time in Fhirdiad with his friends. Ingrid, happy and betrothed; Dimitri, sane and charming. Felix, still serious but sly, setting pranks on Dimitri or Glenn for a laugh. 

A sigh escapes him as he thinks about his closest friend. Unusually uproarious, his laugh was a sound you wouldn't think would come out of the brooding swordmaster. It was... _ warm _ , infectious. He tries to count how long it's been since he'd heard it...probably since before Duscur, when he lost his brother. 

Rough hands run through flaming curls and he shakes the image from his mind, ignoring the tightness that forms in his chest. Squinting from the sunlight, he looks up at the towering monastery before him. Aside from the mess the thieves had made, it looked the same as it had five years ago. 

The same could not be said of the fractured remnants of the Blue Lions. Sylvain had hardened; boyish cheeks sharpened, bright eyes grown weary. Any semblance of his previous frivolity pushed aside to focus on the war. 

He was  _ tired _ . He’d never felt truly tired before the war.  _ Sleepy _ , yes. But now his bones carry perpetual exhaustion. 

And his joints pop.  _ That _ had been a new and frightening development. 

Sylvain sits until the sun begins to fall behind the walls of the monastery. When he hears soft footsteps behind him, he knows who it is without turning around. That presence was unmistakable; he’d known it since he was a child. He swallows thickly as the tightness returns to his chest.

Sylvain caught only a glimpse of him on the battlefield. A flash of dark hair and steel and the burning red of his family's relic. The smell of ozone after a lightning strike. 

Felix had found him, as he always did. Maybe it was the pact they had made as children, maybe it was something else that tethered them to each other, but somehow they always managed to reunite despite time or distance. 

He looks over the swordsman; like himself, Felix had filled out in the last five years. The wiry adolescent had fallen away, something stronger and lethal emerging instead. He is lean, with an obvious strength that shows in the way he carries himself, in his walk. 

Amber eyes lock with his, and if Felix feels any emotion at their reunion, he doesn't show it. The impressive scowl stays fixed. 

“They're looking for you. The professor and the boar.” 

Sylvain gives a non-committal grunt and shrugs. “I'll be up in a minute. I needed to breathe.” He sniffs at the resounding silence as he pries his lance from the ground and waves it around as he talks. “Why, yes, Felix, it's nice to see you too after five years of war.” He dares a smile, trying  _ something _ to crack that facade in the way only he can. Or... _ could _ , at least. 

Felix doesn't budge.

“Shit,” Sylvain chuckles. “So much for pleasantries.” His breath catches from the tightness in his chest that clenches around his heart, but he covers it up with a small cough. He pointedly ignores the fact that this happens whenever he thinks about or looks at Felix.

That’s a battle for another time.

The silence persists and begins to become awkward, which is how the swordsman always preferred it--it gives him the advantage. But Felix’s eyes burn; Sylvain knows he's dying to say something, but he’s holding his tongue. He grits something else out instead. 

“There's a cabinet meeting about to start, so hurry up.” His words are cold and harsh, but they wash warmly over Sylvain. He’s a little sickened that he feels grateful to hear Felix speak at all.

Luckily, his voice remains even. “Dimi has a _ cabinet _ now?” 

Felix makes a disgusted noise. “So it would seem. And of all people,  _ you’re _ in charge of defensive strategy.”

Sylvain shakes his head and Felix even manages a small huff. “Then we’re in worse straits than we thought.” 

Felix rolls his eyes and turns to head back, but pauses and looks over his shoulder. There’s a beat, and then, quietly: 

“It is...good to see you alive, Sylvain.”

Sylvain blinks. The tension in his chest eases up, just a little, and his mouth curls into a lopsided grin as Felix walks away.

_ Huh _ . 

_ The damn bastard isn't entirely hopeless _ .   
  


* * *

The rumor goes that ghosts roam the halls of the old monastery. Sylvain never put much stock into the tales, although the stories Mercedes told were always entertaining; no, the only ghosts Sylvain saw were the remaining members of his house. 

Never would he have guessed what five years could add to a person. They were all still young, but the wear of war showed in their faces--etched into furrowed brows, rough hands, tired eyes. 

The weight of the world is on their shoulders. The future of Fohdlan, every life rests in their hands, their survival hanging upon their success in defeating the Empire.

Sylvain can  _ feel _ it, too. Right in a spot just below his sternum, beneath the bones of his chest, where he can't reach; a pressure, an  _ ache _ that persists and writhes and breaks through even the adrenaline rush of battle.

At least, that's what he  _ thinks _ it is. He tries not to dwell on it.

Part of him is tempted to fall back into his old routine; the monastery hadn’t changed, only those who resided in it, and if Sylvain lets himself get distracted for a moment he can make himself believe that no time had passed, that he was messing around waiting for class to start. If he tried, he could slip back into the cat and mouse games he played with the women in the town (and some of the more adventurous nuns). It’d be easier.

Instead, he spends most of his time in the stables. Horses, he’d found, are a resilient species. Sylvain had never loved them as much as the von Aegir lad back in school, but over the past five years, they’d grown on him, his own horse often the only friend when he’d travel on his own between territories.

Pearl is his horse, a shiny black mare, who is very particular about getting her mane brushed. And that’s what Sylvain is doing, or,  _ trying _ to do. He’s paused mid-stroke as he notices a lumbering mass of blonde and blue walk towards the chapel. 

Dimitri.

Another good thing about horses: they don’t have mental breaks and go on murderous rampages and disappear when their kingdom needs them the most, abandoning their soldiers and citizens. 

Sylvain doesn't even know where to  _ start _ with him. 

He hated to admit it, but as usual, Felix had been right. The once kind and chivalrous man he's known since childhood—the one he'd eagerly raised up as king early on—was no longer. Something darker, crueler, resided in his place. A monster.  _ A boar _ , as Felix would say.

Five or ten years ago, Sylvain would have given his life for the prince, no questions asked. 

But now? 

Now, every time he looks at Dimitri, all he can see is the prince crushing that soldier’s skull with his bare hands and  _ smiling _ . 

Sylvain hasn’t quite reconciled the fact that Dimitri is the king he is supposedly fighting for. The cause is just, but the leader? He isn’t so sure. The only thing keeping him somewhat reassured is that the Professor has put her faith in him.

Pearl knocks her soft nose into his jaw, breaking Sylvain out of his reverie and reminding him of the task at hand. The rhythmic noise of the brush soothes him. He continues until sunlight bleeds into Pearl’s stall, signaling that morning has fully come. 

* * *

The dining hall is one of the few places in the monastery that Sylvain doesn’t like to spend much time in. He watches his comrades drift, somber and quiet in a place that once roared with life. If he concentrates he can faintly hear the sizzle of food cooking, the comforting din of excited chatter amongst students. This used to be his favorite haunt, but now it just reminds him of what is at stake in the war. 

_ This _ is what drives Sylvain to keep going, to keep fighting: the people that returned to help build a better world, a better Fódlan. They’ve come, just as he had, for a higher purpose. 

“You're more pensive than I remember you being.”

A soft, breathy voice breaks his concentration, making him jump. Mercedes slides into the seat opposite him, delicately placing her chin on a dainty hand. Sylvain gives a small chuckle and rolls his eyes. 

“I don't think  _ pensive _ is a word anyone has ever used to describe me.”

She smiles, the apple of her cheeks making her eyes crinkle, a delicate hand to her mouth. “Well nevertheless, I am happy to see you back.” She glances around at the sad and weary faces, tucking a short strand of pale hair behind her ear. “We really can use your enthusiastic spirit, you know.”

Despite himself, he grimaces. He'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop since he got back to the Monastery. 

He knew the reputation he'd left behind. A philanderer, a womanizer, someone constantly playing the field with no regard for the women he left behind in his wake. Which, admittedly, he had been, to a degree. In reality, most of the women were just after his Crest.

Sometimes he yearns for those simpler times, days of a life still  _ permanent _ . Dealing with nobility-hungry ladies is far preferable to battle.

But chasing tail is hard to prioritize when you're thrust upon a position of leadership. Sylvan’s father was doing the best he could, but he was off doing diplomatic work more often than not. That left Sylvain in charge of far more than he wanted to be at this age. 

He'd sent troops into battle. Troops that suffered losses. Men,  _ his _ men, had died at his command. 

But now, back at the monastery, he could feel the eyes of his former colleagues on him. Expecting. Maybe even  _ hoping _ that after all the shit they've been through the past five years, something, some _ one _ would remain the same. 

He looks back at Mercedes. Her long hair is cut short, yet her sweet face has remained mostly the same--but there's bags under her eyes. She seems just as tired as him, probably more so, if Sylvain remembers her correctly. She’s always been selfless, giving a seemingly unending amount of herself to others. 

He admired her endlessly for it, and besides Ingrid and Felix and Dimitri she was really the only true friend he had. 

Their eyes meet and he sighs before twisting his lips into his trademark smirk. “You know me, Mercie. The ladies will be flocking to me in no time.”

A blonde brow arches, and he knows she could call his bluff if she wanted, but she doesn't. Instead, she lightly taps his hand and gets up. “I'll be in the chapel if you need me. If you want to talk.”

He knows. “I know.”

Sylvain watches her leave and lingers a few minutes longer before hauling himself from the table. He needed to move. 

* * *

He's already sweating by the time he hits the training grounds-- it’s so  _ fucking hot _ \--and he idly grabs a sword from the rack and spins it before he realizes who’s in there with him. 

Felix is in his own world. The remains of about four, maybe five dummies lay around him, a macabre straw circle. He’s magnificent to watch; swift, deadly, his aim true. He never misses his target. 

Sylvain leans against a pillar as he takes the Levin sword and raises it high, a loud cry tearing through him, casting lightning down and turning the dummy into a ball flame.

Laughing, Sylvain claps his hands as the sting of ozone hits his nostrils. “Whoever said you don’t have a flair for the dramatic is a liar.”

Felix whips around, eyes wide for a moment; clearly, he thought he was alone. He frowns as he regains his composure, not daring to look at the chaos behind him. “I don’t have a flair for the dramatic.”

Sylvain looks pointedly at the ball of flame on the ground. “Our friend here would disagree with you.”

The annoyance grows on Felix’s face as he sheaths his sword. “Why are you here, Sylvain?”

Shrugging, he begins to walk around their little training area, slowly moving his sword in various formations he learned as a child. It feels foreign in his hand; the iron is clunky, too wide, unbalanced. “I wanted to move, to clear my head a little.” 

“Didn't realize there was anything in your head that needed  _ clearing _ .”

Sylvain pauses, hand to his chest, face screwed up and feigning hurt. “You  _ wound _ me, dear friend.”

He ignores the actual pang of hurt that coils in his stomach. 

Felix snorts, rolls his eyes. “I'll spar with you. But if you annoy me, you're on your own.”

They spend the next half hour clashing swords. Felix beats Sylvain readily, round after round. It's not unexpected; Felix is quicksilver, fluid and deadly. 

When he knocks the sword out of Sylvain’s hand for the upteenth time, he laughs, picking the rusted sword up again. 

“Why don't you just give up already? You aren't going to win.”

Sylvain grins. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I? They don’t call my stamina  _ legendary _ for nothing.”

A frustrated cry. “You haven't changed.” He spits the words out, harsh and cold. 

His breath hitches, the thing inside him writhes, squeezes his heart; it’s like Felix pushed his sword into his chest, and it’s  _ cold _ , like ice climbing through his veins. Sylvain’s face hardens as he recognizes real, genuine  _ hurt _ , and he recoils. “How would you know,” he says quietly. “You’ve barely spoken to me since we got back.”

Felix stalks away from him, clearly irritated. “I don’t talk, but I listen. You’d be an idiot not to think that the gossip would be just as bad as it was before. There’s already talk of you philandering about.” 

The grip on Sylvain’s sword tightens so hard his knuckles bleed, and he swallows. “I assumed you would know the difference between fact and fiction. Do you really think I’d be doing those things now? When we’re off fighting the Empire every other week?” He can feel the tips of his ears getting red, anger and hurt welling inside him. 

“If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you’ve always been shameless.” Felix turns, swinging his sword again, energy buzzing off the blade. “Besides, now’s the best time to be trying to secure an heir, right? Or hasn’t that always been your excuse.” 

Sylvain couldn’t see straight now, the wound forming from Felix’s words cutting deeper and deeper. “You  _ know _ that’s not--how much I hate--” He can’t even get the words out, red clouding his vision, and something swells in his chest that it becomes painful to breathe. 

So, he lets his sword clatter to the ground and storms out of the training area.

He knows better than to think Felix will care.

It’s a struggle for Sylvain to walk all the way to his quarters, his breath ragged, his brain swirling around the sudden hostility from Felix. He can feel something climbing up his throat, like something is grappling for a way out. He bursts through his door and begins coughing, desperate for air. Wiping his mouth, he sees a bright red smear and tastes the bitter tang of copper: blood. 

He feels it push it’s way up, feels something forein in his airway, before he coughs it out. For a moment, he pauses, brows furrowed, inspecting the object. Small, round, white where it’s not tinged pink with blood, and then it unfurls into a flower--a white rose. 

“What the  _ fuck _ ?” Sylvain croaks, before another coughing fit slams into him. Petals and blood and more flowers pour from him before finally easing up; he just rolls onto his back and lets exhaustion overtake him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Be sure to check out my Twitter @thekrodinator. Be on the lookout for more chapters soon! I'm going to update at least once a month, hopefully more. Thanks!


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